RITA'S BROTHER
All through the campaign of '64 the crimson tide of war deepened and
broadened. Even Graham's cool and veteran spirit was appalled at the
awful slaughter on either side. The Army of the Potomac--the grandest
army ever organized, and always made more sublime and heroic by
defeat--was led by a man as remorseless as fate. He was fate to
thousands of loyal men, whom he placed at will as coolly as if they had
been the pieces on a chessboard. He was fate to the Confederacy, upon
whose throat he placed his iron grasp, never relaxed until life was
extinct. In May, 1864, he quietly crossed the Rapidan for the
death-grapple. He took the most direct route for Richmond, ignoring all
obstacles and the fate of his predecessors. To think that General Grant
wished to fight the battle of the Wilderness is pure idiocy. One would
almost as soon choose the Dismal Swamp for a battleground. It was
undoubtedly his hope to pass beyond that gloomy tangle, over which the
shadow of death had brooded ever since fatal Chancellorsville. But Lee,
his brilliant and vigilant opponent, rarely lost an advantage; and
Graham's experienced eye, as with the cavalry he was in the extreme
advance, clearly saw that their position would give their foes enormous
advantages. Lee's movements would be completely masked by the almost
impervious growth, He and his lieutenants could approach within
striking distance, whenever they chose, without being seen, and had
little to fear from the Union artillery, which the past had given them
much cause to dread. It was a region also to disgust the very soul of a
cavalryman; for the low, scrubby growth lined the narrow roads almost
as effectually as the most scientifically prepared _abatis_.
Graham's surmise was correct. Lee would not wait till his antagonist
had reached open and favorable ground, but he made an attack at once,
where, owing to peculiarities of position, one of his thin regiments
had often the strength of a brigade.
On the morning of the 5th of May began one of the most awful and bloody
battles in the annals of warfare. Indeed it was the beginning of one
long and almost continuous struggle which ended only at Appomattox.
With a hundred thousand more, Graham was swept into the bloody vortex,
and through summer heat, autumn rains, and winter cold, he marched and
fought with little rest. He was eventually given the colonelcy of his
regiment, and at times commanded a brigade. He passed through
unnumbered dangers unscathed; and his invulnerability became a proverb
among his associates. Indeed he was a mystery to them, for his face
grew sadder and sterner every day, and his reticence about himself and
all his affairs was often remarked upon. His men and officers had
unbounded respect for him, that was not wholly unmixed with fear; for
while he was considerate, and asked for no exposure to danger in which
he did not share, his steady discipline was never relaxed, and he kept
himself almost wholly aloof, except as their military relations
required contact. He could not, therefore, be popular among the
hard-swearing, rollicking, and convivial cavalrymen. In a long period
of inaction he might have become very unpopular, but the admirable
manner in which he led them in action, and his sagacious care of them
and their horses on the march and in camp, led them to trust him
implicitly. Chief of all, he had acquired that which with the stern
veterans of that day went further than anything else--a reputation for
dauntless courage. What they objected to were his "glum looks and
unsocial ways," as they termed them.
They little knew that his cold, stern face hid suffering that was
growing almost desperate in its intensity. They little knew that he was
chained to his military duty as to a rock, while a vulture of anxiety
was eating out his very heart. What was a pale, thin, white-haired
woman to them? But what to him? How true it is that often the heaviest
burdens of life are those at which the world would laugh, and of which
the overweighted heart cannot and will not speak!
For a long time after his plunge into the dreary depths of the
Wilderness he had received no letters. Then he had learned of Grace's
return home; and at first he was glad indeed. His aunt had written
nothing more alarming than that Grace had overtaxed her strength in
caring for the throngs of wounded men sent from the Wilderness, that
she needed rest and good tonic treatment. Then came word that she was
"better"; then they "hoped she was gaining"; then they were about to go
to "the seashore, and Grace had always improved in salt air." It was
then intimated that she had found "the summer heat very enervating, and
now that fall winds were blowing she would grow stronger." At last, at
the beginning of winter, it was admitted that she had not improved as
they had hoped; but they thought she was holding her own very
well--that the continued and terrific character of the war oppressed
her--and that every day she dreaded to hear that he had been stricken
among other thousands.
Thus, little by little, ever softened by some excuse or some hope, the
bitter truth grew plain: Grace was failing, fading, threatening to
vanish. He wrote as often as he could, and sought with all his skill to
cheer, sustain, and reconcile her to life. At first she wrote to him
not infrequently, but her letters grew further and further apart, and
at last she wrote, in the early spring of '65.
"I wish I could see you, Alford; but I know it is impossible. You are
strong, you are doing much to end this awful war, and it's your duty to
remain at your post. You must not sully your perfect image in my mind,
or add to my unhappiness by leaving the service now for my sake. I have
learned the one bitter lesson of the times. No matter how much
_personal_ agony, physical or mental, is involved, the war must go on;
and each one must keep his place in the ranks till he falls or is
disabled. I have fallen. I am disabled. My wound will not close, and
drop by drop life and strength are ebbing. I know I disappoint you, my
true, true friend; but I cannot help it. Do not reproach me. Do not
blame me too harshly. Think me weak, as I truly am. Indeed, when I am
gone your chances will be far better. It costs me a great effort to
write this. There is a weight on my hand and brain as well as on my
heart. Hereafter I will send my messages through dear, kind Mrs.
Mayburn, who has been a mother to me in all my sorrow. Do not fear: I
will wait till you can come with honor; for I must see you once more."
For a long time after receiving this letter a despair fell on Graham.
He was so mechanical in the performance of his duties that his
associates wondered at him, and he grew more gaunt and haggard than
ever. Then in sharp reaction came a feverish eagerness to see the war
ended.
Indeed all saw that the end was near, and none, probably, more clearly
than the gallant and indomitable Lee himself. At last the Confederate
army was outflanked, the lines around Petersburg were broken through,
and the final pursuit began. It was noted that Graham fought and
charged with an almost tiger-like fierceness; and for once his men said
with reason that he had no mercy on them. He was almost counting the
hours until the time when he could sheathe his sword and say with
honor, "I resign."
One morning they struck a large force of the enemy, and he led a
headlong charge. For a time the fortunes of the battle wavered, for the
Confederates fought with the courage of desperation. Graham on his
powerful horse soon became a conspicuous object, and all gave way
before him as if he were a messenger of death, at the same time
wondering at his invulnerability.
The battle surged on and forward until the enemy were driven into a
thick piece of woods. Graham on the right of his line directed his
bugler to give the order to dismount, and a moment later his line of
battle plunged into the forest. In the desperate _melee_ that followed
in the underbrush, he was lost to sight except to a few of his men. It
was here that he found himself confronted by a Confederate officer,
from whose eyes flashed the determination either to slay or to be
slain. Graham had crossed swords with him but a moment when he
recognized that he had no ordinary antagonist; and with his instinct of
fight aroused to its highest pitch he gave himself up wholly to a
personal and mortal combat, shouting meantime to those near, "Leave
this man to me."
Looking his opponent steadily in the eye, like a true swordsman, he
remained first on the defensive; and such was his skill that his long,
straight blade was a shield as well as a weapon. Suddenly the dark eyes
and features of his opponent raised before him the image of Rita
Anderson; and he was so overcome for a second that the Confederate
touched his breast with his sabre and drew blood. That sharp prick and
the thought that Rita's brother might be before him aroused every
faculty and power of his mind and body. His sword was a shield again,
and he shouted, "Is not your name Henry Anderson?"
"My name is our cause," was the defiant answer; "with it I will live or
die."
Then came upon Graham one of those rare moments in his life when no
mortal man could stand before him. Ceasing his wary, rapid fence, his
sword played like lightning; and in less than a moment the
Confederate's sabre flew from his hand, and he stood helpless.
"Strike," he said, sullenly; "I won't surrender."
"I'd sooner cut off my right hand," replied Graham, smiling upon him,
"than strike the brother of Rita Anderson."
"Is your name Graham?" asked his opponent, his aspect changing
instantly.
"Yes; and you are Henry. I saw your sister's eyes in yours. Take up
your sword, and go quietly to the rear as my friend, not prisoner. I
adjure you, by the name of your old and honored father and your
noble-hearted sister, to let me keep my promise to them to save your
life, were it ever in my power."
"I yield," said the young man, in deep despondency. "Our cause _is_
lost, and you are the only man in the North to whom I should be willing
to surrender. Colonel, I will obey your orders."
Summoning his orderly and another soldier, he said to them, "Escort
this gentleman to the rear. Let him keep his arms. I have too much
confidence in you, Colonel Anderson, even to ask that you promise not
to escape. Treat him with respect. He will share my quarters to-night."
And then he turned and rushed onward to overtake the extreme advance of
his line, wondering at the strange scene which had passed with almost
the rapidity of thought.
That night by Graham's camp-fire began a friendship between himself and
Henry Anderson which would be lifelong. The latter asked, "Have you
heard from my father and sister since you parted with them?"
"No. My duties have carried me far away from that region. But it is a
source of unspeakable gratification that we have met, and that you can
tell me of their welfare."
"It does seem as if destiny, or, as father would say, Providence, had
linked my fortunes and those of my family with you. He and Rita would
actually have suffered with hunger but for you. Since you were there
the region has been tramped and fought over by the forces of both
sides, and swept bare. My father mentioned your name and that of
Colonel Hilland; and a guard was placed over his house, and he and Rita
were saved from any personal annoyance. But all of his slaves, except
the old woman you remember, were either run off or enticed away, and
his means of livelihood practically destroyed. Old Uncle Jehu and his
son Huey have almost supported them. They, simple souls, could not keep
your secret, though they tried to after their clumsy fashion. My pay,
you know, was almost worthless; and indeed there was little left for
them to buy. Colonel Graham, I am indebted to you for far more than
life, which has become wellnigh a burden to me."
"Life has brought far heavier burdens to others than to you, Colonel
Anderson. Those you love are living; and to provide for and protect
such a father and sister as you possess might well give zest to any
life. Your cause is lost; and the time may come sooner than you expect
when you will be right glad of it. I know you cannot think so now, and
we will not dwell on this topic. I can testify from four years'
experience that no cause was ever defended with higher courage or more
heroic self-sacrifice. But your South is not lost; and it will be the
fault of its own people if it does not work out a grander destiny
within the Union than it could ever achieve alone. But don't let us
discuss politics. You have the same right to your views that I have to
mine. I will tell you how much I owe to your father and sister, and
then you will see that the burden of obligation rests upon me;" and he
gave his own version of that memorable day whose consequences
threatened to culminate in Grace Hilland's death.
Under the dominion of this thought he could not hide the anguish of his
mind; and Rita had hinted enough in her letters to enable Anderson to
comprehend his new-found friend. He took Graham's hand, and as he wrung
it he said, "Yes, life has brought to others heavier burdens than to
me."
"You may have thought," resumed Graham, "that I fought savagely to-day;
but I felt that it is best for all to end this useless, bloody struggle
as soon as possible. As for myself, I'm just crazed with anxiety to get
away and return home. Of course we cannot be together after tonight,
for with the dawn I must be in the saddle. Tonight you shall share my
blankets. You must let me treat you as your father and Rita treated me.
I will divide my money with you: don't grieve me by objecting. Call it
a loan if you will. Your currency is now worthless. You must go with
the other prisoners; but I can soon obtain your release on parole, and
then, in the name of all that is sacred, return home to those who
idolize you. Do this, Colonel Anderson, and you will lift a heavy
burden from one already overweighted."
"As you put the case I cannot do otherwise," was the sad reply. "Indeed
I have no heart for any more useless fighting. My duty now is clearly
to my father and sister."
That night the two men slumbered side by side, and in the dawn parted
more like brothers than like foes.
As Graham had predicted, but a brief time elapsed before Lee
surrendered, and Colonel Anderson's liberty on parole was soon secured.
They parted with the assurance that they would meet again as soon as
circumstances would permit.
At the earliest hour in which he could depart with honor, Graham's
urgent entreaty secured him a leave of absence; and he lost not a
moment in his return, sending to his aunt in advance a telegram to
announce his coming.